


Euphemism

by woodsong_1978 (Vae)



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M, innuendo ahoy, not quite Winston Churchill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-23
Updated: 2008-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/woodsong_1978
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a gun is not just a gun</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euphemism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyrstzha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/gifts).



It's a gun.

Not a euphemism.

Just a simple, plain, antiquated pistol. Maybe a revolver, Simon's never been quite sure of the difference. And obviously it _needs_ cleaning, which is why Mal is sitting at the dining table, cleaning it.

Slowly, thoroughly cleaning it.

Lao tian ye, it's just a _gun_. And if Simon tells himself that enough times, he might even start believing it.

The trouble is, Mal's started cleaning his gun (ma de, that one's started to sound like a euphemism, too) more often lately. Or maybe, until recently, he'd been cleaning his gun in private rather than right out in public where Simon can see. Where he can't avoid seeing. All he has to do is settle into a chair with a book for a few quiet minutes to himself away from the infirmary and Mal appears, unholsters his pistol, sets it on the table and starts to disassemble it.

Simon's almost certain that he can't start spending all his time in the infirmary to avoid the sight of the captain cleaning his gun. He's tested the theory, and after a couple of days, he'd glanced out of the window to see Mal sprawled on the couch outside, slowly rubbing an oiled rag over the barrel of his pistol. Slow and steady, rhythmic, hypnotizing movements until Simon had torn his gaze away from those careful caresses to see Mal's eyes fixed firmly on him.

That's when he'd realized that his lips were parted and dry, his breath was shallow and he was suddenly, painfully hard. Thankfully below the level of the window and hidden from Mal's vision, but when Mal resumed rubbing, Simon would have sworn to any deity in the official lists (and a fair few excluded) that he could feel phantom fingers stroking over his diao, with slow, steady, confident movements.

He'd felt the heat flushing his face, bitten hard into his lip, and turned abruptly away, pressing the heel of his hand against his erection, willing it to fade.

It hadn't. Not until he'd snatched a few minutes privacy ( _after_ Mal had gone) to spend an embarrassingly short amount of quality time with his hand, with Mal's slow grin held sharp in his mind.

At least with a book and more distance between them across the dining room, he can pretend not to be watching. Not to be affected. Careful veneer of privacy, reading a book, which just happens to be resting in his lap. Covering the physical evidence of his interest.

And hopefully, Mal won't notice the color in his face, or that he's not turning the pages very often.

**Author's Note:**

> Firefly is owned by Fox, Universal and Joss Whedon. I make no profit from this work of fanfiction
> 
> Written for Lyrstzha for midwinter 2007 (oops late), thanks to lvs2read for beta services


End file.
